What've I Done?
by the.eye.does.not.SEE
Summary: Oscar dies. Future fic. J/K-centric.


**Title** : _What've I Done?_ (1/1)

 **Universe** : _Blindspot_ , s2?

 **Rating** : PG-13 (language)

 **Characters** : Jane Doe, Kurt Weller

 **Summary** : Oscar dies.

 **A/N** : Fucking blame S for this. Because she's right—as soon as I start to get invested in Oscar, they're going to fucking kill him off. It's going to be horrible and bloody and I don't want to imagine the slow-mo shots of Jane and Kurt's faces when it happens. And yet, I completely can. After Jaimie posted that promo pic of her and François, I spent a little while thinking about how Jane would react. Read below. :)

x x x

She didn't need to turn to know whom the footsteps behind her belonged to; she knew the tread of Kurt's boots as easily as she did her own. For once, though, the sound of his approaching feet did not bring her excitement or anticipation, not even contentment. She didn't want him here. Not now.

He stopped a few feet away. She listened to the plod of his boots until they fell silent, and then she listened to the rustle of his jacket when he folded his arms. He didn't speak, so she figured he was waiting for her to talk first. For a moment, she thought about denying him. She thought about never speaking to him, not today, not tomorrow, not ever again. But as soon as the idea was in her head, she knew it was a foolish one. She'd speak to him again. She'd come back to him again. That was set in stone and written in the stars and fucking tattooed on her damn back.

"Bet you're happy about this turn of events."

She heard his quick intake of air—shocked, offended—but he didn't fire back right away. Of course he didn't. Special Agent Kurt Weller, always in-control, would never give into his emotions so easily.

"No," he said finally, his tone quiet, his voice measured as he disagreed. "I'm not happy about this, Jane. Why would I be happy?"

"Um, I don't know. Maybe because you've spent the last six months wishing for him to die. You even said it out loud a couple times, if I recall. Shouted it in his face, and in mine."

"I was being an asshole, Jane."

"Yes. You were." She nodded along with his own estimation, and then laughed hollowly, adding, "And look how it's paid off. Wonderful for you, right? Now all you have to do is count down the seconds until I run back into your arms, and everything will be like before, won't it? That's what you've wanted ever since he showed up."

"Jane, no matter what I feel for you, I'm not happy that a man died on my watch."

"He wasn't on _your_ watch, he's not FBI. He's not— _wasn't_ —a concern of yours."

"Anything that concerns you concerns me."

She finally turned to him then, a saccharine smile on her face, so big it almost twisted her features. "Oh, how romantic, Weller."

" _Jane_." He took a half-step forward, angry, and then a half-step back, remembering himself. She smiled without feeling at his hasty retreat. Good for him to know his place.

She turned back around and stared down at the body before her, bracing herself against the coroner's table. As she was "family" to the deceased—whatever that meant—they'd given her time alone with him. With the body. She hadn't wanted it at first, hadn't wanted to be around him now that he was gone, but she'd wanted even less to _not_ be around him. So she'd let go of Patterson's comforting hand in the hallway, gone into the little room with the shades drawn, and stood. She'd been standing here for an hour, and yet she still hadn't come up with a single thing to say or do or think that might in any way apologize for what had happened.

One could make the argument that it wasn't her fault he'd died. One could make the argument that she'd had no way to save him, no way to help him, no way at all, really, to even have known he was there. But they'd been working together long enough that she should've known he was there. Ever since he'd popped out of the woodwork to save her from Carter's deep, dark hole in the ground, he'd been waiting in the wings, watching and helping. Slowly feeding her what information she had allowed him to. Slowly trying to prove he wasn't an intruder or a fake or anything except who he—and _she_ —said he was.

 _Here to help._

That's what she'd said to him, to her, on that video. And that's what he'd done, ever since coming back. He'd helped. He'd given her intel, he'd hinted at some of the tattoos, and he'd followed her into the field, when he deemed it necessary. He was never in the front lines—Weller would've gone batshit—but he waited on the perimeters, sniper rifle in hand, aiding where he could. On more than one occasion, he had saved her life. He'd saved Weller's twice.

"He didn't deserve to die like this," Jane said aloud, not taking her eyes off the man in question. She was glad none of the bullets went through his head; at least there was one safe place to look. "He took four bullets," she whispered, remembering watching them go in, one after the other, seeing the spray of blood, seeing him falling…

"The coroner said he probably didn't—"

At the sound of Kurt's voice, Jane glared him into silence. "Don't," she ordered. "Don't tell me he 'probably didn't suffer.' Don't tell me it wasn't painful. He took four bullets, Kurt, and he felt each one. He kept breathing the whole time; I watched him."

"I know what he took, Jane. I was there, too."

She shook her head, her throat growing tight. "He wasn't doing anything wrong," she whispered.

Kurt made a quiet noise in his throat behind her, one she couldn't decipher. She waited, impatiently, for him to explain himself. When he didn't, she spat out her demand: " _What_ , Weller?"

"He shouldn't have been in the field," Kurt finally said roughly, releasing the words, Jane was sure, he'd been wanting to shout all day. "When you're not supposed to be in the field, this is what happens."

Jane shook her head sharply, her hands curling into fists on the table. "Don't excuse it like that. Don't act like he couldn't take care of himself out there. He was a goddamn Marine before all this, Weller. You don't lose that sort of training. You don't get soft or stupid—not at his age, not at that level. He was barely two years out."

"I don't care what he _was_ ," Kurt replied, a bite to his voice now that Jane wholeheartedly welcomed. She wanted to fight. She wanted to scream and cry and tear her hair out, but her mind and body wouldn't let her do those things. So fight, instead. Weller was as good an opponent as any. "He was a civilian out there, Jane. He was a civilian with military-grade weaponry, picking off terrorists, and he was _alone_."

"He was with us!"

"No, he _alone_ ," Kurt corrected, his voice rising. "He may have been on our side of the field, but he was sure as shit a mercenary, fighting for whatever side suited his endgame. He would've turned that rifle on us, if we'd started making the wrong moves—"

"Oh, you're delusional," Jane scoffed, starting to turn away. "You think that just because—"

"You know I am _not_ the one who was delusional, Jane."

Jane froze at the words, halfway between Weller and Oscar, an eye on both of them. She did her best to close her eyes, to draw a breath, to stay calm…

"Didn't think you could hide that discharge file from me, did you? The Marines are careful, Jane, exceedingly so. They don't let the lone wolf poison the herd, no matter how good he is at what he does. He was having psychological problems, Jane, and they were right in letting him go for it. You can't blame them for it. They can't allow a guy like that in the field and expect him not to turn on his own men—"

"Oh, fuck you!" Jane screamed, whirling around. "You know that's not the fucking reason he got discharged, Weller! He knew what was going on in the Corps, and he tried to stop it! _That's_ why he got discharged! They called him crazy and kicked him out of the service to shut him up; _that's_ what happened. Anything else is just an excuse, just the Marines covering their asses, just like everybody else."

Kurt crossed his arms, staring her down. "You're sure of that, are you?"

Jane nodded curtly, pressing her lips together against his indignation. "Yes," she bit out. "I am."

"Why?" he demanded. "Because _he_ told you? You really believed everything that came out of that mouth of his, huh?"

"Jesus Christ," Jane groaned, turning away again. "When are you going to drop it? I'm sick of jealous Weller, all right? I've had _enough_."

"That's not what this is about!" Kurt shouted, but from the way he stepped forward, she knew that was exactly what this was about. Part of her didn't blame him; how would she have felt, had his ex-fiancée showed up in the middle of the night to save his life? How would she have felt, knowing they were having secret meetings she was not privy to, learning things about each other she might never know?

But the other part of her did blame him, wanted to shake him and scream, _He's dead, you asshole! There's no competition anymore, not like there ever was one!_

"What does he have to do," Jane began quietly, forcing her voice steady, "to gain your trust? I get that you didn't like him. I get that you didn't trust him alone with me. I get that you're wary of his motives. But he's goddamn _dead_ now, Weller, and you're _still_ looking at him like he's a criminal!"

"He might as well be, with what he's done!"

"Yeah, well, then so am I!" Jane shouted, throwing out her arms, fed up with it all. "Because we did this together, him and I! You want to fucking throw him to the wolves, consign him to hell, you better be ready to do the same to me!"

She stared at him, waiting: for him to scream some more, for him to storm out, for him to do any manner of stupid, impulsive things. But he didn't do any of them, of course. Special Agent Kurt Weller would never step out of line. Finally, he just sighed, and hung his head. She watched, waiting, one hand still gripping the slab.

"Look, Jane, I know you're upset…"

"Don't tell me what I am, Kurt. You've never lost anybody like this."

He didn't say anything to that. There wasn't anything to say, really. Because no matter how many people he _had_ lost, nothing would compare to this: losing a person who was both a stranger and a lover at the same time; losing a comrade-in-arms and a threat; losing the only person you'd ever met that knew anything about you, and what you'd been through. Who could explain it, and commiserate. Who could actually _understand_.

"You know, he told me about this from the start: he told me he was willing to die for this mission—die for _me_." She frowned, shaking her head. "I know he was serious, he was always serious, with everything, but…"

"But it's different when it really gets to that point," Kurt finished for her. His voice was quiet, understanding. "Yeah, I know," he murmured. He came to stand at the edge of the slab, by the feet. For a moment, they both stood there, staring down at the body. After a few minutes, Kurt cleared his throat.

"If it makes you feel better, Mayfair's been thinking of contacting the Marine Corps, of getting them to award him some sort of posthumous honor, private as it may be, for all that he did. They probably won't overturn his dishonorable discharge, or say anything publicly, but—"

"—but at least he gets a fucking medal in his coffin, right?" Jane laughed without feeling, and then shook her head. "What good will a medal do him, Kurt? He's fucking _dead_ , and he died for a country he knew was broken and corrupt. One that turned its back on him, and threw him out into the cold. He wouldn't want them honoring him for anything."

"But he died trying to make it better," Kurt pointed out, turning to her. He searched for her eyes and held them. In her periphery, she could see his fingers twitch at his side, like he wanted to reach out for her hand. He didn't let himself. "He died trying to make things better," Kurt repeated. "And he succeeded. He did a lot of good in the time that he had."

"Mm, yes. Just enough good to get him executed."

Kurt sighed tiredly, lifting a hand to rub his forehead. "Jane…"

"Look, Kurt, I'll come and talk to you when I need somebody to hold me and tell me everything's going to be okay, all right? I'm sure that point will come; it always does with you and me." She sighed, feeling his exhaustion as if it were her own for a moment. "But right now, all I want is time to be angry and alone, got it? I need time to break things and blame myself and just fucking scream, because he's _dead_ and I'm still standing here without a scratch."

Kurt nodded silently. He knew what _that_ was like; he'd been there, at least.

It was silent for a few minutes then, as Jane stared at the pale, closed-off face on the slab and Kurt lingered by her side. Eventually, he cleared his throat.

"You know a good way to honor him, to honor what he did and all he could've done? Something that's better than a medal?"

Jane closed her eyes, bracing herself against the table and nodding heavily. Leave it to Kurt to slip an order into an attempt at comfort. "Yeah, I know. Keep up the fight. Go, team, go."

"Lots of work still to be done."

Jane smiled a little at that, eyeing him sidelong. "No mourning period for you, huh? Not even for delusional mercenaries, or friends of friends?"

Kurt was quiet for a long moment. Finally, he said, "I do my mourning in the field, Jane. That's the only way to keep going. Bullets will serve you better now than votive candles ever could, trust me on that."

And then he excused himself, and Jane was alone with the body again. She stared at it, willing it to become a person, to become _him_ again. But it was only getting colder, more lifeless, and farther away with each minute that ticked by, and she knew he wouldn't be coming back. He wouldn't be rising from the dead to give her one last piece of information, or take her aside to whisper one last cryptic clue in her ear, or catch her eye with that look that said, _Hey. We're getting there._

If he could, though, if he could come back and say one more thing, do one more thing, she knew he'd agree: with Kurt, and with _her_. There's no time for mourning, only time for action. One man drops the torch, you pick it back up and keep running. You don't look back. You don't stop to grieve. You keep going, and if you get knocked down too, know that someone else will be there to take your place. Eventually the fire will get lit. Or at least, you have to believe that it will, because without it, you've got nothing left.

x x x

 **Author's Note** : I got super excited seeing that new picture of Oscar (and Jane), and so I couldn't help myself from writing something for them. Here's to hoping this fic doesn't end up becoming canon, and we get a long while to learn what Oscar's up to and where he's come from.

Thank you so much for reading, and please leave some thoughts behind on the story!


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